The Color of Regret
by Respect the Hobos
Summary: Her dress is red. The color of passion. Or the color of blood and violence. Yes, the red is always present. And the pure white of the soap can never remove that stain." Reno property of Square Enix. Rated T for safety.


A/N: so I'm feeling a bit morbid tonight and got sick of sorting through endless pages of Reno/whoever yaoi, so I decided to write a wonderfully emo story of my own. Thanks to Moiranne Rose for entertaining me with non-yaoi Reno morbidity.

I drain the last drop of the amber alcohol from the bottom of the clear glass. It's warm by this time, but it doesn't matter, I'll be gone soon.

Everything seems brighter now: the lights, the dress of the girl I'm standing with. They shine so brightly that everything dull and ugly is forgotten. No grays, or blacks, like the barrel of a gun, but gold, akin to the embers of a dying building, the final sputtering hours of a job well done, and oranges and blues, like the flames which lead to it.

But the heat of the girl next to me distorts my vision of it. She's warm, too, not cooled by the light fingers of death. And the blood rushes through her veins, not over my hands. Her dress is red. The color of passion.

Or the color of blood and violence. Yes, the red is always present. And the pure white of the soap can never remove that stain.

We're walking through the dark blue of midnight in Edge. We walk silently through the silent black city. All these people in the safety of their homes. With their children, their pets. Unaware of the business being conducted right outside their homes every night by the man in the white suit. White. With the black beneath it.

We reach the dull gray apartment. She leads me through the well lit lobby and into the elevator. The door shuts and she turns to me eagerly. Her fingers trail over the black jacket of my suit. She giggles and I can smell the liquor on her breath. Her pink lips meet mine and her luscious red tounge darts through my teeth. She tugs at my lip with her straight white teeth. She pulls me against her, her back against the cheesy faux-marble of the elevator walls.

The door dings open and she drags me out and down the hall to her room. She doesn't even bother turning on the lights. She, instead, proceeds to remove my loose white shirt. I know that, in the morning, it will be marked with the red of her lipstick. How easily that color, white, is tainted.

I help her slide off the red dress and the light from the street lamp outside illuminates the stark white of her bra. I almost laugh. She's not the kind of girl I thought she was. I was expecting the definite black of a girl with triple her experience. I stop. She doesn't.

I push her away. Any other girl, I'd cooperate. I'd let her do what she wanted, try a few tricks of my own, and in the morning, I'd disappear. Her name and face would be just a distant memory, like the faces I encounter every day. But I can't bring myself to make her into one of those girls. The one's with the black beneath the red.

I bend over and pick up the white shirt, pulling it on without bothering to button it and swing the black jacket over my shoulder. I'm not quite ready to put it on, yet. I feel for the lights and flick them on. She stands in the center of the room, her vulnerability obvious in the light. Her red dress lays crumpled on the floor.

I want to smirk, tell her it'll be alright, crack a witty joke, and leave. But instead, I simply say, "White is a better color." She stares at me like I'm crazy and I can tell she's not completely processing what I say. Her eyes have the glassy sheen of the amber liquid.

I finally smile humorlessly. "It was nice meeting you, Tanith," I say. I turn and leave, closing the door behind me. I travel back down the hallway to the cheesy elevator and make my way back through the well-lit lobby to the dark, empty street. I put my jacket on and dig through the pockets for a cigarette and the lighter. I place the white cigarette in my mouth and light the black lighter. The blue and orange flame dances beneath the tip, finally catching the paper and tobacco. I release the button, but the gold embers continue to burn at the tip. I walk back through the dark blue night as the white of the paper is slowly replaced by the charred black and dark gray ashes.

The wind catches them and they flutter away into the cold, dark night. In a few hours, I think, the sun will rise, pure and bright. And it will start all over again.

A/N: I wasn't sure where this was going when I started, but obviously the colors ended up being my thematic element.... Anyway. Even though it's a writing exercise at best, feedback and suggestions to improve my writing would be appreciated.


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